You only see rainbows when you have the sun in your back. I had no one but myself in my back. The bourgeois in me, watching, just shook his head, and asked how I had made it back here. I would have liked it best if he shut up, but I thought I might still need him, so I never stuffed his mouth indefinitely. One day I could wake up and wish it hadn’t taken me. For that day, I saved the bourgeois in me. That was my plan, but at this time I had a feeling I might as well wait for Judgement day. The crazy ones with the aluminum hats and their stocked cans and bunkers certainly got what they wanted faster than I found something that kept me in a good mood.
The usual 20-year-old outcast from the world. Every second person will tell you the same story, about their bad childhoods and about the madness they had to endure and carry now in themselves. That feeling of not belonging anywhere. I thought about going to Los Angeles, I always wanted to see it, but I didn’t think much of unsuccessful actors, artists, and technocrats. Too much future, too much serious, too little fun, legal pot; the scum would have attracted me, but I didn’t even know the whole of here and an incomplete home spectrum of degenerates to add an exotic touch too, seemed like a waste of money and time. I drank a beer and thought about it and then one more on his well-being and on my corrodible wishes.
I stuck with the tried and true. In the boredom and the daydreams and use the change everywhere to be someone else; someone quite different; who has more or less; who knew more or less. I thought I knew loneliness better, but back then I didn’t. Years later, a lonely author sits in his room and thinks about these words. I didn’t have any problems. No more monsters driving me away. I was a more or less healthy guy, born in the rich western hemisphere and who was dictated but not trapped by circumstances. Hunger is poverty. Starving is stupidity. I was impoverished with love and starved to death of my own stupidity.
To get rid of the picture of us, I imagined her performing coitus thousands of times, in different positions, in different places. Missionary position in the laundry room. Standing pressed to the window in the apartment opposite, her nipples smearing the glass. From behind on my bed, next to my bed, behind my bed. Sitting inside each other in the subway at night. Everywhere I went, they did it. The woman I claimed I loved and the figure, her man, who was just a shadow to me.
If I teared up at first, felt a pinch in my stomach and a sting in my head, it turned into white noise at some point. I had conversations with her in my head for a long time, but they didn’t end with us being swallowed by each other’s arms. Usually, she only let go of for a moment and as soon as the last word was spoken, she returned to him again. I was left alone with myself. Again, with noise and my imagination squeezing my tear ducts.
That’s all I was. White noise and grey cigarette smoke. I smoked one cigarette after the other. I had sworn away from everything else for the time being. Too often the knives in the kitchen block seemed too close and the meat of my forearm too yielding. I danced around thinking of suicide like I was in a sick game of travel to Jerusalem. There just weren’t any other children in the world I had to push off my chair to win. I just had to sit down and wait for the music to run out. Sit, wait and win. I could still hear her moaning through the music though.
I hated myself to an extent that wasn’t enough to commit suicide, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t romanticize him. It sleeps best in a hole six feet in the ground. One sleeps quietly, comfortably and undisturbed. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in a long time. When you closed the coffin lid, you couldn’t hear your alarm anymore. Not the first, not the eight, not the eight-time who were asked not to oversleep. I could sleep late and could barely stand waking up. But you didn’t have to wake up if you didn’t want to.
The next day I woke up, then I dressed up and went shopping. Concentrated on the pretty ones in the pretty dresses. While the sight usually made me rejoice, I didn’t care what could be seen under rock folds in the wind. Instead, I kept looking at my cell phone. I was still hoping she’d check-in. A fool had always been lost to me. When I got out on the street, I finally put it away. I realized how ridiculous I was making myself looking again.
When I pulled the key to the car out of my jacket pocket, it vibrated. No matter what it said, there was another chance back.
In a single hand movement, I stuffed the key back and pulled the mobile phone out of the same pocket. The car key landed on the ground and I looked at a commercial email. The disappointment grew to frustration and my frustration, I left out on my mobile phone. I threw it to the floor, with what I had in my wrist. It crashed, jumped twice, the battery cover said goodbye under the car, the battery flew away, and the case landed so that the screen touched the ground. It is common sense to everyone a phone landing on its belly, didn’t do it any good.
I picked it up off the street. The screen was riddled with cracks. “Fuck,” I shouted, took the phone of the asphalt and threw it right back to the ground. The small crystals that made up the screen disintegrated on impact. When it rolled over the ground, splinters rained. The light split in the small pieces into small stripes of color. I stepped on that piece of junk. From my frustration, anger had developed, and the dismembered corpse of a Smartphone laid in a sea of glass crystals of different sizes.
When I was ready to relax, I breathed once more. I didn’t bother to scrape the loose parts together. Should the street cleaners do their God-a worn job? That’s what they were there for. So that they would bend over and sweep the small pieces together. Throw them into the trash. I got into the car, turned the key to ignite the engine and drove off.
Parking out, I made sure I hit the phone with the tires again. When I was driving, I felt a knot in my stomach. My heartfelt like it was only beating every other time. I was driving slowly. At the crossroads, I was wondering if a red light could really stop me.
< Previous Chapter: The Predetermined Breaking Point
> Next Chapter: The 8 on my arm turned in my head. Chapter of despair.
– BEGINNING: The Romans Would Have Eaten Fries
PART OF: TOXIC 24/7
SUPPORT ME, BUY IT HERE: https://www.amazon.de/dp/B07QZD96P4
APPRECIATE IT, MATES AND MADAMS.
John D.Dexter 